In the Still of the Night
by sliceofperfection
Summary: "It was on these nights that she often quietly worked on her latest textile project, and he found himself lost in one of his many books." A domestic one-shot that looks into an evening spent by Phyllis Baxter & Joseph Molesley as if they were married. Inspired by a tumblr post & requested to be written by an anon.


_Hey all! So since I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to work through the next chapter & have it posted before Christmas, I bring you tiding of another kind in the form of this Baxley one-shot (yay! *claps hands excitedly*)! This was a request that came to me anonymously via tumblr, after they happened to read my crazy ramblings in the tags beneath a post I reblogged. So in, no way, shape or form can I claim credit for the idea behind this. But I did have a blast applying it to Baxley. I've copied & pasted the original post along w/the credit at the end, in case those of you non-tumblr peeps were curious as to what inspired this. Anyway, enough of my rambling! Read on & enjoy the Baxley! :)_

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><p>They rose just as the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, and were greeted by a blackened, glittering sky upon their return home each night. Most days they were too tired to even keep their eyes open while they readied for bed. And the instant they dove beneath the warm, woolen blankets, their heads collapsing atop their pillows, they fought a hopeless battle.<p>

Sometimes her lips would press urgently to his as she sought to revive the flame of intimacy they hadn't known since the early years of their marriage. It was usually a frantic race for them to find their individual ends, to which the means was wholly satisfying, albeit temporary. In the morning they were greeted by the harsh buzzing of their alarm clock as their bodies were jolted suddenly from a peaceful slumber.

Other nights he'd reach for her, draw her body close to his, and they'd surrender to the heaviness of sleep that weighed them down. His mouth lazily caressed her forehead while they allowed the warmth that radiating between them; lull them into a deep slumber. This was the outcome they more often welcomed.

It was on rare occasion that they'd sometimes sit up in bed, awake and unable to let sleep claim them; particularly if the weather for their walk home was more temperate than the harsh conditions that wore them down each winter. Or if the end of their workdays had been full of great excitement or something loomed ahead tomorrow that seized hold of their minds, rendering them restless. It was on these nights that she often quietly worked on her latest textile project, and he found himself lost in one of his many books.

But whatever mood they found themselves in every evening, whatever activity they chose to occupy their time, all that truly mattered was that they were together. They didn't have to say anything. They just knew it was in these quiet moments where they could _just be, _were the what they looked forward to most. No airs or restrictions were placed on them. No formal sense of duty forced them to be anything more than husband and wife. Inside the four walls of the cottage they were simply Mr. & Mrs. Molesley. Their allegiance wasn't too anyone but one other.

His hand could skate across her thigh, fingertips absentmindedly playing with the fabric of her nightgown, without it seeming indecent. She could lean into his side, rest her head in the curve of his shoulder and feel the extent of her weariness without fear of reproach from a superior. Here they felt safe, free of any judgments or criticisms they contended with outside the comfort of their home. It was in these moments that they felt most alive. Even if they silently waged war against the blank release of sleep that separated them. They drank in one another's presence, committing every detail to memory as best they could.

Even now as Joe found himself immersed in E.M. Forster's, _A Passage to India, _his free hand rested on her right knee, thumb absentmindedly tracing invisible patterns along the fabric of her nightgown. His brow knit in concentration while he tried to grasp the deeper meaning behind the desired friendship between two of the major players. Forster's message seemed muddled; similar to his descriptions of how the Englishwomen viewed the country they were visiting.

Her foot brushed against his beneath the woolen bed coverings, only the sound of her knitting needles clicking together as she worked on making another pale blue blanket for one of the young women down in the village.

"You're very thoughtful," She observed his solemn expression, tilting her head back against the headboard.

"Am I?" He wondered lightly, a ripple of amusement passing through his words. He felt her gaze fixating on him, and he glanced up from the book.

"It must be a good story," Phyllis commented pleasantly, turning her focus back onto her knitting.

"It _is_ interesting, yes," He agreed, folding down one of the page corners before letting the book fall closed. Watching her loop a bit of yarn around one of the needles, he explained, "His whole take on India is quite different than what you'd expect from an English writer."

"How's that?" She inquired without looking up from her work.

She might not be as well versed with literature as him, but she still tried to seem interested in the things he enjoyed. Similarly to how he'd ask about her latest handmade project.

"Well…" Joe thought for a minute, and then decided emphatically, "…it's almost like he's expressing a desire for…for the two worlds to exist harmoniously. Without placing one above the other." His hands waved about, his passions aptly displayed.

He thought instantly of the scene in the mosque that just played out between Dr. Aziz and Mrs. Moore in Part I of the story.

"Isn't that a bit idealistic for an English writer?" She wondered skeptically, drawing him away from his deep contemplation. She passed the loop of blue across the other needle, adding another chain to that row.

"Oh I don't know," He shrugged, considering her argument. Chewing on the bottom of his lip, Joe stared ahead for a few moments. "He did live in India for quite some time ye know," He turned his face in her direction, leaning against the headboard.

"Ahh…" Phyllis inclined her head understandingly, "…so he's writing from personal experience?"

"Like most do," He answered in agreement.

She knit several more loops together, finishing off another row. He watched as she swiftly turned the half formed blanket in her lap, maneuvering the needles in such a way to continue the chain across another row. Her hand trembled visibly from the gesticulation, and she tried to shake it off as though it was nothing. Her fingers curled and uncurled, and she let out a tired sigh, her face creasing in a sort of grimace.

Before she could bring herself to continue working, Joe brought her hand in between both of his. He gently massaged the heel of her hand, prompting her eye to find his. "You work your hands too hard," He remarked knowingly.

She rolled her eyes at this, shook her head, and insisted plainly, "What other choice do I have?"

He continued kneading her palm, watching the tense lines slowly erase from her visage with each meaningful stroke and pressure point his fingers hit.

"Well I know ye can't refuse to do this sorta thing while we're up at the house," Joe contended softly. "But at home, don't ye think they deserve a rest?" He brought the back of her hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss there before arching a suggestive brow in her direction.

Phyllis' lips twitched into an aslant smile at his expression, and she leaned back into the headboard again.

Her swollen knuckles, calloused fingertips, and muscle cramps were every indication that he was right. She spent the majority of her day mending dresses, some requiring the finer attention that only her handmade work could produce. And when she wasn't busy with that, there were shoes in need of polishing, jewelry that needed meticulous cleaning and hair that needed dressing. All required the use of steady hands. And while Phyllis wasn't yet fifty, the many years of working her hands with such precision was starting to catch up to her. And continuing on making handmade materials once the workday ended certainly didn't help.

But like with all things, there was a reason she felt the need to keep herself busy. Especially whenever she couldn't let the harsh realities of the world fade away upon crawling into bed.

She watched his hands work to alleviate the ache in hers for several moments before she stated quietly, "Y'know I can't help it."

"I know," He muttered in response, picking up on the deflated quality in her voice.

He thought for a split second of the basket tucked away in her closet. Various pieces of blue and pink fabric, and yarn lined the bottom. She'd never use any of it to make things for their home, and therefore, she was determined to create as many things as she could for other families in the village. Her supply was nearly run out. He wondered if she'd decide to buy more or just let all of it go entirely. He hoped for the latter, but felt she might choose the former.

Joe turned her hand over, fully exposing her palm. His fingertips drummed into the fleshy part just below her thumb, causing her to exhale audibly.

"Feel any better?" He asked, lifting his hopeful eyes towards hers.

"A bit," She grinned meekly, leaning forward to capture his lips in a quick kiss. "Thank you," She added warmly as she slowly pulled away. Settling back on her side of the bed, she rolled her wrist a few times before threading the yarn back between both needles.

Joe propped open his book again, unfolding back the page corner.

They resumed their silent, independent activities for a while longer. Then he heard a slight gasp cut into the quiet, and he shot a look of concern in his wife's direction.

"Damn," She grumbled out of frustration, letting everything fall against her lap. The ball of yarn tumbled off the bed, unravelling across the floor.

He watched her run one thumb across the expanse of the opposite palm, alternating this motion between both hands to assuage the tension that seized them yet again. Her brow was furrowed, mouth drooping into a noticeable frown.

"Lissy," He interjected delicately, placing his hand over hers to steady them.

She looked up at him, her dull brown eyes filling with a despondency that took hold of his heart.

Joe felt his throat go dry and he exhaled heavily. Lightly squeezing her hands he offered encouragingly, "Why not try again tomorrow. It'll be a brand new day."

Phyllis nodded, letting out a deep breath of her own. Wordlessly, she carefully picked up the half formed blanket and needles, placing everything inside the storage box on the floor. She rolled over onto one side, flicking off the lamp on her bedside table.

The room was half cloaked in darkness, a dim glow still radiating from his side of the bed. The mattress shifted as Phyllis settled deeper beneath the covers. He studied her curled up form for several minutes, inwardly wrestling with whether or not to reach out to her or not.

He was concerned about her blatant distress, but he wasn't sure if she wanted his comforting touch. It was always so hard to tell with her. And if she was exhausted and just wanted to be left alone to sleep, his restlessness would only irritate her more. For the suspense of what might unfold next in his story kept his mind awake and alert.

So he scooted closer to her, prompting himself up on an elbow as he hovered above her. "Lissy," He whispered.

"Hmm?" Phyllis murmured sleepily.

"Mind if I keep reading?" He asked.

"No," She bemoaned.

He couldn't tell if she was merely tired or still annoyed, and so he couldn't help but wonder, "Are you…are you alright?"

"Mmm…" She hummed vaguely.

Joe leaned closer into her, draping an arm tightly around her shoulders. "Are you sure?"

Her head spun around, and she sighed exasperatedly, "Yes!"

He jumped back, releasing his hold on her and muttering, "Alright. Alright. Sorry I asked."

He should have known better. She was most irritable in the moments right before sleep seized her, and soon following its merciless release on her.

Angling his body closer to the opposite side of his bed where the singular light source from the room was, Joe found himself transported again into an exotic world as seen through the eyes of his countrymen as well as the native Dr. Aziz. It was getting quite good, there was a trip the players were planning to the Marabar Caves, and the dry witticisms that were masked in exaggerate observations by Adela Quested and Mrs. Moore had him chuckling lowly.

He almost forgot he wasn't alone, and at this realization he cast a cautionary glance over at Phyllis' back. He froze for several seconds, just watching her sleep peacefully. And then he turned back to the book.

No sooner had he dove back into the plot than did he hear a break in her steady breathing, and he could feel her roll over towards the center of the bed.

"Joe?" She croaked, clearing the sleep from her voice.

Whirling around to look at her, he saw her squinting up at him. Her frazzled hair gathered in as single pleat, fell in front of her shoulder as she propped herself up.

"You still awake?"

Guilt flooded his tone at her question. He hadn't meant to stir her from her slumber. She was such a light sleeper, and sometimes his laughter was louder than he realized.

"Yeah…sorry Liss," He began reproachfully, reaching forward to stroke her cheek. "I didn't mean to…"

She shook her head, interrupting him, "No, don't be." Phyllis sat up and admitted, "I couldn't sleep."

His hand fell to her shoulder and he asked out of concern, "Something on yer mind?"

She frowned, her eyelids fluttering as she replied unconvincingly, "It's nothing."

"Liss," He cocked his head to the side, touching the ends of her hair, "ye know when ye say _it's nothing_ ye never really mean it."

The edges of her mouth turned up and she snickered. He knew her better than she often gave him credit for.

Lowering her gaze she muttered dryly, "I'm not tired, but my hands are. And I just…" Phyllis paused, looking up again to catch his eye. She could see the empathetic sadness etched across his face. She finished her lamentation with a lifted brow, "…I wish I could do _some _thing instead of lying here doing nothing…being worthless."

"Oh stop," Joe gripped the curve of her neck, shaking her playfully, hoping to inspire a smile. "You couldn't be worthless," He assured her, "even if you tried, you still wouldn't be."

"Well what am I supposed to do then? I can't read like you," She posited, throwing her hands up in defeat.

"You read just fine," He argued plainly, not understanding where all of these insecurities of hers were coming from.

"Not _that_ stuff," She looked down pointedly at the Forster book in his lap. "I'm not _that_ good at it."

He always knew this was something that oftentimes embarrassed her to admit. He may have left school at twelve, but she was nine when her older sister pulled her out abruptly. Their mother was ill and required constant supervision. And while her disease was invisible to the naked eye, it still affected Phyllis more than she cared to let on. It was in moments like these that he sensed her discomfort, sensed her still haunted by certain ghosts of her past that would never truly let her go.

Joe wished he could do something to ease her disquiet. Wished he had the ability to scare away these malevolent spirits that gripped her even years later. Then an idea struck him suddenly. And he decided confidently, nudging her in the shoulder in an attempt to grab her attention, "Well…ye could learn. I'll teach ye."

This time he was successful in his objective, scoring doubly as he noticed a slight smile spreading at her lips. Behind thick lashes she peered up at him, clearly pleased by the thought. Phyllis bobbed her, tilting her head to the other side while she suggested sweetly, "Maybe you could just…read to me? At least...for tonight?"

"Sure. I can do that," His arm encircled both of her shoulders and he pressed a swift kiss at her temple. "C'mere," He opened his arm up so she could settle closer into his side.

They both sunk down further into the bed, pulling up the woolen blankets more tightly around them. She snuggled into him, her head fitting into his shoulder just so. Joe opened the book back up to where he presumably left off, flipping past a couple of pages to find the proper place. "Ahhh...here we are," He shifted a bit until his head angled into hers in a comfortable fashion.

Clearing his throat, he started to read, "Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talk that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence. Inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. There are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing happens, and though we continue to exclaim, 'I do enjoy myself,' or, 'I am horrified,' we are insincere. 'As far as I feel anything, it is enjoyment, horror"- it's not more than that really, and a perfectly adjusted organism would be silent."_  
><em>

Joe paused for a moment, letting it all sink in. Then he went on to comment animatedly, "I think he does make some rather intriguing observations about how life can be dull, even if ye don't care to admit it. Don't you?"

He waited for a response that never came. Instead, all he heard was his wife's rhythmic breathing that blew across his neck. Joe didn't move, but dared to whisper again just to be sure, "Lissy?"

When no interruption to her breathing was made, Joe set his book facedown on his nightstand before turning off his lamp. The room was instantly covered in blackness, but he knew just how to carefully roll Phyllis off of him and onto her side of the bed. She murmured something incoherently, which prompted him to smile amusedly. Burrowing in the cocoon of blankets, she let out a contented sigh whenever he heard her cheek nestle into the pillow.

Tonight he would reach for her like he did most night's, and they'd welcome the outcome of sleeping intertwined just like they always did. As he lightly kissed the nape of her neck, his arm draped over her waist, legs threaded through hers, he decided that this was the most thrilling part of his day. And even though he was momentarily falling away from the realities of the world, and even, away from her, Joseph Molesley never felt more alive.

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><p><em>Alrighty so...credit goes to peapodcapaldi for creating the post that inspired this. And the post itself read: <em>whatever you do don't imagine one half of your otp reading while the other one dozes on their shoulder all tangled up in the bedsheets don't do it please. _Also, I feel the need to credit the passage I quoted in E.M. Forster's _A Passage to India, _the quote can be found in Chapter XIV, p. 146 in my edition. Title of this fic is taken from _The Five Satins song, "In the Still of the Night," in case you'd like to have a listen to that. (I know I'm so original w/titles lol. :P)

_Also, on another little sidenote (that you probably don't care about), yes I made Joe give Phyllis a nickname. Fun, personal anecdote about that, my grandfather used to called my grandmother "Sissy" as a pet name (her name was Eleanor FYI so I dunno how that came to be), and I was trying to think of ways that one might abbreviate Phyllis. And well, I thought of my adorable g-parentals and thought omg, what if he just calls her "Lissy?" in those moments when they are alone. And it just so happens that Lissy rhymed w/Sissy and I found the whole thing just so fraking adorable I had to. On that note, hope you all have a blessed & happy holiday season! _

_xoxo, Lynn_


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